Introspection
by lillelouis
Summary: Sam and Dean go into the Soul-trading business. Slight crossover with a movie called Cold Souls. NO SLASH! SPOILERS FOR S 6! A review a day keeps the doctor away.
1. Chapter 1

Inspired by the movie Cold Souls. Slight crossover, but not much. Left open, but I won't post another chapter unless someone prompts me to. I'll consider you all satisfied

Introspection

"So," The kind-looking doctor slapped the manila folder back. "Sam has no soul?" He glanced from one man to the other.

The lighter one nodded. "That's right."

"You know. . . this isn't standard." He smiled crookedly at both of them.

"We know that, doctor, but I really think I need help." the dark one, named Sam, pleaded.

"Well you probably heard our business has become taxed as of recent?"

Both nodded somberly.

"It's not gonna be cheap."

"We understand, doc. Jus' please. . ." The lighter, named Dean, gestured to the darker. "Help my brother."

Dr. Flintstein thought both men looked trustworthy, if not a little rough around the edges. But they did in no way scream 'cop'. He smiled one last time at the desperate look on their faces before pressing a button on his desk phone. "Claudia, will you hold my calls please?"

"_Certainly, Sir_," a pleasant voice answered immediately.

He sighed in pleasure. One of the reasons for hiring Claudia was her pleasant phone voice. The two customers seemed too pressed to appreciate it though, so he dove straight in. "I can do this," Both sighed before he could finish. "But it's going to be quite expensive." He tried to lighten their somber faces with a smile. It didn't work. "Right." He stood from his desk and gestured for the two men to join him. "I have the afternoon free so in theory I could perform the procedure right now?"

They suddenly looked shy. Questioning. The lighter one, Dean, inhaled to speak. "Just so we're clear: This soul won't be Sam's?"

"Well has he ever been treated here before?"

Dean had a real problem with the word 'treatment'. As if they were curing cancer or something and not removing people's _souls_. "No," Both brothers shook their heads.

"Ah, well then you can simply choose a temporary soul to replace his old one."

"So you just shove another one in there?"

"Well. . ." Dr. Flintstein had a problem with the word 'shove'. "No exactly."

"But it won't be my own soul?" Sam asked quietly and coolly.

"I'm afraid we can't help you in _that_ department, but we can surely offer a lovely replacement until you reacquire your own."

"But will it even. . . Fit?" Dean questioned. He didn't like this. Not at all.

"Yes," The doctor mistook the doubt for curiosity and relished the chance to conform the uninformed masses about his work. "You see the soul is a very tricky thing. You can't judge it by its size or shape. Every borrowed soul will undergo an adjustment period, but can medicate you for that," He looked to Sam.

"Wait, wait. It needs to _adjust_?" Dean's skepticism was pumping dangerously close to the fault line.

The doctor nodded. "Yes. Some of the more common symptoms are headaches, sweats, trouble sleeping, spontaneous anxiety attacks, depression, mild disorientation and IBS."

"IBS?" Sam parroted in a distinctly arrogant tone. "Spastic colon?"

"Yes, but that's not very common." Dr. Flintstein hastened. "Most people hardly feel any side effects at all. Most just have a little trouble sleeping through the night."

Dean was starting to hate the word 'most' as well.

Dr. Flintstein showed them to his shelf-room where he stored the most prized souls he had collected over the few years he had been removing them.

"But won't whoever's soul Sam gets, miss _it_?" Dean wasn't sold. At all.

"Oh, hardly," Flintstein smoothed calmly. "All souls donated are done so willingly. And when you're done using it, we'll return it to its rightful owner."

"So you have them catalogued?" Sam asked with humor in his voice. He glanced at Dean. "You think Crowley has all his organized like this?" He gestured to the wall, decorated with glass-jars full of miscellaneous souls.

Dr. Flintstein glanced uneasily at Sam. _Who was Crowley? Was he competition?_ "I assure you, every soul donated has been done freely. And we have a lovely selection." He gestured again to the shelves.

"He gets to choose one of these?" Dean pointed to the wall with ill concealed distaste. The doctor didn't notice.

"Aha, no. These are my private selection."

"Private?" Sam quirked his brow again.

"A couple of famous people, some distant family members and such." Dr. Flintstein turned to look at the two men. "All soul donated to us remain anonymous for the comfort of our patients."

Again with the _words_, Dean thought. 'Patients' were not how he'd describe these people. Soulless? Ghosts of their former selves? Yes. He glanced at Sam who seemed to be taking it all in stride. "So he doesn't get to choose his own soul?"

"'Own' is hardly the word-" Dr. Flintstein lightly chastised.

"_Borrowed_ then,"

". . .but, no. Not so. We have a list compiled of the souls in storage. If you would like to see, I could show you?" He turned them back to his office. There he sat down behind his desk and pulled out the large book of souls, categorized after employment and age of the donors. He flipped it open and turned it the two men could see. "See, here you have their job-title and the age of the person who donated."

"This one says 13," Dean pointed to one. _Who the fuck would do this to a child? Or let them do it to themselves?_

Dr. Flintstein turned the book around. "Ahh, 'Actor'." He smiled. "I'm afraid I can't disclose the name of the person this soul belonged to."

Dean nodded without dropping his guard. This place gave him the creeps.

"See anything you like?" Dr. Flintstein leaned across the table and smiled at Sam.

He smiled back without showing much _feeling_. "These are all actors." He commented, flipping on in the book.

"Yes. They're listed alphabetically. The procedure is very popular with actors, artists and such."

Sam kept flipping and had to keep himself from laughing out loud at some of the professions. "Actors, butchers, bankers, CEOs, doctors, dancers, dentists, e-" He huffed. "Exotic dancers?" and shared a quick grin with his brother.

Despite the horribly, soul-wrenching, gutting, back-breaking _bad_ feeling he was getting from this place, he found the idea funny. _Guess even strippers sometimes find it morally bankrupt to rip their clothes off in front of strangers_. Then it dawned on him. _Most of those people are probably prostitutes and just said the next best thing because they _had _to say something_. That killed his buzz in two seconds flat and he went right back to sulking.

Sam wheezed out a laugh and pointed to a title. "Look, Dean, someone put on 'extra'." He didn't notice that Dean didn't share his lighthearted spirits and kept flipping. "Hey, here's one. Firefighter." Sam pointed to a spot on the page and glanced up. "Could work?"

"Are you a firefighter?" Dr. Flintstein asked kindly.

"Not exactly."

"We're more like freelancers," Dean smoothed over.

"Oh? What do you freelance with?" The doctor asked kindly enough, but Dean still felt his skin crawl as he prepared to tell another lie.

"We're like. . ." None was forthcoming.

"Pest-control." Sam fired off without pause for thought. He was getting to be one helluva liar.

"Well I assume you travel a lot then?" Both nodded. "Maybe someone with a more nomadic lifestyle?"

"Yeah. . ." Sam kept flipping and Dean was slowly getting fed up. This wasn't a goddamn Quic-E-Mart! "A lotta Homeopaths and Herbalists on here."

"Yes." Dr. Flintstein chuckled as if remembering an old joke.

"Homemakers too." Sam commented.

Another disturbing doctor-chuckle and Dean felt right about ready to crawl out of his skin if it meant leaving. But Sam's next words stopped him dead.

"Or maybe an Interrogator?" He looked up seriously.

Dean felt alarm bells going off in all corners of his mind. "Hell no,"

"Why not? Might come in handy?"

Dr. Flintstein stayed blissfully quiet, but was staring at Sam and Dean as if trying to comprhend why two pest-controllers would need such a cold and bruised soul.

"No way. I want someone as close to the old Sam as possible. No interrogators. . . and no politicians," Dean added as an afterthought. Sam pouted, but kept leafing through the folder.

"Insurance Agent?"

"NO!" Dean barked to the great dismay of the doctor. He sat back and crossed his arms while Sam smiled softly. No way was he gonna apologize for his outburst, no matter how weird the doctor looked at him.

"I know there's an inventor on the list as well." Dr. Flintstein said pleasantly and tried not to appear scared of Dean's outburst.

Sam had stopped leafing. "Might work?" He glanced at Dean.

"Well was he a nice inventor?" Dean posed the question as obnoxiously and childishly as he possibly could and glared at the doctor.

"I don't remember that particular case, but I believe it was from a woman."

"Moving on. . ." Sam said without so much as a 'sorry' to the feminine population of the world. But he remembered well enough that he had been host to a female entity once before and had no desire to relive the experience. "Lawyer?" He glanced at his brother, not entirely trusting his own judgment any longer.

Dean just shook his head without taking his eyes off the doctor. It seemed the two were having a staring match.

It took about an hour, but they had finally narrowed it down to three suspects. "So. . ." Sam sighed and ran a hand down his face. It wasn't really that he was tired or numb. The movement just felt so familiar. "We have a choice between Librarian, Cop or Travelling Salesman."

"I think the traveling salesman might suit your requirements nicely." Dr. Flintstein said in his ever-pleasant voice.

Sam was doubtful he'd get much out of a soul as one from a salesman. "Dean? Whatta you think?"

Dean growled.

He nodded and smirked, having made his own choice. "Right. Cop it is." He slapped the book closed and smirked at Dr. Flintstein.

"Wise choice," he accepted the ledger from the young man. "If you'd like we could perform the procedure right now and schedule your first follow-up visit?"

"Sounds fine."

Dean had stopped talking and blinking all together. He had crossed his arms and fixed his eyes on a spot on the doctor's desk. He only moved when Sam hissed at him from the door. He got up with the greatest effort and a face full of thunderclouds. They were led into another white room, hosting a large machine. "It looks like a CAT scanner." Dean commented darkly.

Dr. Flintstein chuckled and pressed the 'on'-button. "Yes. Indeed it does. It was developed from one, but has little of the same functions. It's much more advanced." Some lights came on and a deep sucking sound emitted from the man-sized hole in the middle. "Sam, if you please?" He gestured to the stretcher and left the room.

"Where's he going?" Dean was instantly suspicious.

Sam's jeans made a loud slapping sound when he thumped onto the narrow bed. "Will you relax? Dean, this is what we wanted- More even! This was like a frickin' neon sign from above."

"A little too convenient," Dean growled and took a seat on one of the visitor chairs. "And why the hell is he acting so weird, huh?" He gestured to the storage room where Dr. Flintstein had vanished into.

Sam shrugged. "Probably had his own soul removed as well."

Dean looked jolted beyond pain or fright. Pure shock was written in bold caps all over his face. "How the hell you figure that?"

"Just what I would do if I had to convince people to sell their souls all day. I'd probably go insane if I didn't."

Dean swallowed down his initial horror and thought about it, pointedly ignoring the frightening level of insight Sam suddenly displayed towards this man and his trade. "Makes sense I guess. He must've had ethics at _some_ point in his life."

"Exactly," Sam praised, really sounding like he hadn't heard a word his brother had said.

Dean glared, hating the world a little more each second.

"Here we are!" Dr. Flintstein returned in victory with his prize held carefully in both hands.

"Why does it look like dirt?" Dean was feeling more suspicious than ever before. More and more likely to burn a clip in the doc just to release some stress.

"Don't judge it by its looks, M- Dean." Dr. Flintstein realized he didn't know their last names. They had asked to remain anonymous which suited the doctor fine since under-the-table soul-trading wasn't exactly something to brag about. "Most souls resemble dirt or. . ." He examined the jar lovingly. "Clear gel of some kind. If you look I think you'll find this looks more like tar," He held out the jar, but Dean declined with a raised hand.

He couldn't look at it. It seemed beyond unnatural that he was looking a soul someone had ripped out of themselves. _Why would anyone DO that?_

"Sam, if you'll lie down we can get you ready." Sam lay down obediently. "Would you like the introspective glasses?"

Sam shook his head without much thought and got comfortable.

The doctor looked a little taken back. "Are you sure? It'll help the soul bond with you if you wear them."

Sam raised his head from the stretcher. "What will I see?" And then Dean realized, with a sucking sensation, what Sam was afraid of. He was afraid he'd look inside and see hell.

"You'll get glimpses of your new soul. We suggest it for all our patients to help with the merging."

They had gone over it in the office, but Dean still felt a nagging sense of unease. "So you're saying that the part of Sam's soul that's still inside him will bond more easily with his new one?"

Dr. Flintstein had explained that 5 percent of Sam's natural soul still remained within him. Often times the new souls merged effortlessly with the remainder of the old, but a little introspection could never hurt. "Yes."

"But won't that make it that much harder to rip out once he gets his own back?"

"Oh, no." Dr. Flintstein looked blankly from one man to the other. "It shouldn't."

"Uhuh." Dean was about ready to jump ship when Sam accepted the glasses with shivering hands. _Was he nervous? CAN he even BE nervous?_ Dean dismissed it. The stretcher slid in and the doctor pushed the soul-in-the-jar into a little, fitted hole.

"Here we go." He then pushed a button with a smile and stood next to Dean, who had also arisen. The machine made an odd humming sound that drowned out the sound of the wall clock. Then it made a series of clinks and clanks before, what sounded like a fan, turned on somewhere inside it. Dean flinched at every little sound and had his eyes glued to the machine. Despite the intense dislike for the place and everything they did there, he was anxious to see if he'd get his little brother back.

The slide opened and Sam was pushed out. He was on his back, panting slightly, with the goggles still on. "Sammy?" He flinched at the sound of his name, but didn't move to take off the goggles. "Sam?" Dean was over him in a second while Dr. Flintstein nervously turned all buttons and switches to 'off'. Dean slid the goggles from his little brother's head and wasn't particularly happy with what he saw.

Sam was staring straight into space with quiet tears whetting his eyes. Besides the tears he even seemed calm. No shaking or twitching the likes of which Dean was doing at that moment. "What the hell! I thought this was supposed to be safe?" He snapped at the doctor.

To his praise, the man had the decency to look chastised. "I- I don't know what happened. . ."

"Sammy! Can you hear me?" Dean slapped his face softly and got a blink for his trouble. "That's it, kiddo. Come back. C'mon." Another slap roused his brother a bit more. Sam blinked and the calm mask slipped off.

"D-Dean?"

It was said in such a way Dean hadn't heard in ages. With such emotion he thought he might cry right there on the spot. "Hey, kiddo." True to form tears now lined his own eyes as he gazed into his little brother's.

"What happened?"

He rubbed Sam's cheek like he hadn't done in decades. "You got a soul, bud." He couldn't bring himself to say 'your soul'. Even though it burned in him to speak those exact words he couldn't yet.

"Why can't I remember anything?"

"Ah, disorientation." Dr. Flintstein declared with a nervous smile a few feet back.

Dean snarled and helped his brother sit.

Flintstein handed them some aspirin and a bottle of other pills, designed the smooth over the binding process between body and soul. Sam sat as if in a daze through all of it, but he finally looked alive. Not the plastic doll version of himself from just a few moments before.

"And I'll see you next Wednesday." Dr. Flintstein gladly declared whilst walking both brothers out past Claudia.

"Drive safe," The redhead receptionist chirped and Dean could've strangled her.

He pushed his long-awaited little brother into the passenger seat and slid in behind the wheel. Sam hadn't said a word besides his initial queries. That nagging feeling from before was creeping back in Dean as he watched the youngest Winchester sleep. He started the engine and reached over to run a hand down his brother's face. He felt right. Like Sam again. He sighed and turned on the radio at low volume. Motörhead came on with Ace of Spades, but Dean didn't change. He figured his brother could finally enjoy it again; despite the low volume.

He glanced over as he pulled out of the parking lot. Sam's face was relaxed save for one thing. A, little, lurking frown between his eyes. The one that always indicated the beginning of a nightmare. He just wondered if those would get worse now Sam was finally able to sleep again?


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

All worries in the world had left him. His head had squashed and mashed till it found the perfect lumps in the pillow. His duvet wasn't too warm and it wasn't too short. The night was quiet without any obnoxious repetitious sounds. Not a dribble from the faucet. Not even the tick of a wall clock. This was heaven. The air smelled like sweat, but not just his. His brother's as well. Not many people would claim to love that smell, but – then again – not many people had lost their brothers to hell.

He sighed. _Yup_. This was heaven. He shifted just to feel the sheet gently scratch his bare back. The sheer pleasure of it. He sighed again. A deep sigh. His eyes slowly closed and his breathing evened out. He was dancing the fine line between sleep and consciousness, moving in the right direction. Like a line-dancer with an umbrella, who just couldn't _wait_ to take the plunge into oblivion.

Then _it_ happened.

At first a shuffle. Sheets shifted. Then a grunt. More shifting. The second grunt was what sent him careening back to consciousness. It took a full second, but he got there. Not much could stop him if ever he heard that tell-tale sound of Sam in trouble. His heavy lids snapped open, but not quite all the way. He tensed. Another grunt from the twin bed and he was sitting. "Sam?" He ran a hand over his face as he spoke and muffled the word.

Not thinking, he rolled from his bed and flicked on the light. There he saw Sam. Not thrashing, but jerking. Like he'd seen creatures do seconds before their death. Little convulsions. "Sam!" His snap brought both men back to the surface. Dean's bleary-eyed weariness was banished permanently as Sam felt an infusion of adrenaline bring him up and about. The younger brother shied violently away from the elder, with the result of him hitting the floor.

"Jesus." Dean knew this dance and sipped into big-brother mode without being told. He rounded the bed and kneeled in front of his brother in two seconds flat. "It's alright. I gotcha," But Sam didn't seem to listen. "Kiddo, relax!" He barked when one of Sam's flailing limbs struck out and caught him on the knee.

"What's happening . . .What's happening . . .Where am I?" His voice was breathless to put it mildly.

"We're in our room, we're fin-"

"What day is it?"

"Saturday."

"What _date_?" the young'un demanded a little more flippantly than Dean would've tolerated, were he more lucid.

"I dunno. Uhh, the twelfth,"

Sam exhaled deeply in a visible attempt to calm himself. "Of. . .?"

"Of June. Christ, Sam. You want me to count your fingers and toes while we're at it?"

"Why would you-"

"Just shaddup!" he rose and cursed whatever god was listening for his rotten nightmare-prone brother. All happiness from a few moments ago, gone. "God, I can't feel my thigh." He rubbed the bruised limb while walking to the coffee machine. "Should'a played soccer."

"I did," was Sam's terse response.

The comment banished his sour mood a little. Dean couldn't help but smile. Even when angry it was the greatest sound he'd ever heard. All the sounds his brother made were like angelic choirs these days. They made goosebumps riddle his skin and silly smiles tug at each corner of his lips. And he couldn't stop it. No matter how grumpy he got; one word from Sam and he'd smile. Hell the kid had barely spoken at all since getting a soul, but just the _breathing_ was heaven.

He just prayed to God Sam never found any of that out. The mocking would be relentless. "I'm makin' coffee. You want?"

"Yeah," The sheets shuffled some more as the younger brother creped out of bed.

"One condition, though. You tell me what you dreamt about just now?"

"Fine,"

And another wondrous thing to come of Sam's new soul: The complete openness. He was so relaxed. So in control and yet not. The nightmares were plain indicators of that, but he still rolled so gracefully with the punches. They would wake up, Dean would make coffee and Sam would talk. Almost a week had passed since the _re-spirification_, as Dean so lovingly dubbed it – and almost time for their first session with Dr. Flintstein.

So far the worst of it were the nightmares, but those were tolerable. Mostly dreams of events Sam had no real memory of. Dean figured they might be imprints of the soul, but didn't press it. He was just glad to finally have some semblance of his brother back. He clunkered down with two mugs. "Spill."

Sam copied him. "Don't know what exactly you expect to get from it. Same dream as last night," Dean pushed over the coffee and Sam gulped a sip before continuing. "I'm walking through a house and out comes this kid," Sam's face flickered so fast Dean barely noticed. "And there's a woman working in the kitchen. . ."

As, so eloquently put by the younger Winchester, Sam really had no idea what Dean gained from the nightly repetitions. Almost each night Sam had the same dream. They would sit and Sam would go over it in detail. What he didn't know was that Dean was cataloguing every muscle-contraction on his brother's face as he told that tale. Every time he mentioned 'the woman' his nose would flair. As if he wanted to smile, but didn't. But that wasn't what made Dean demand these repeats every night.

At a certain point Sam would stop and stare into the wax table cloth. At the mention of a middle-aged man his eyes would go dull, to the point where Dean thought he'd lost his soul again, and then he'd continue as if nothing happened. But at that moment, every single one, Dean felt hope waver. For some reason something was still offsetting his senses and he was determined to figure out what.

"And then I'm by the sea." Sam drank his coffee and rubbed his face leisurely. "Why is that so fascinating?"

"You're not curious?" Dean countered.

"'Bout what?"

"About. . ." _How to put this delicately_. "Why you're dreaming about people and places you've never seen."

Sam shrugged and toyed with his half empty cup. "Doesn't seem like any of my business,"

Dean scoffed. "Only you would get into this kinda situation."

"What situation?" he demanded hotly, not knowing Dean already had the upper-hand.

One didn't have to have been captain of the debate-team in order to win arguments. "One where you lose your own soul; has to _rent_ another and wonders about it's privacy."

"It's not the soul's privacy."

_He's mouthin' off again_. Dean smiled. "Oh no?"

"No."

"So it's the person that soul belongs to?"

"Yeah." Still reveling in the perceived win, Sam failed to notice his own doom.

"But how's that possible if the soul's no longer attached to that person in any way?"

Silence fell and Dean returned to his coffee and flicked on an episode of 'Glee'. "That's what I thought." Both brothers stayed up for two hours before collapsing in front of the TV. And yet again, both woke bright and early with very little need for more sleep. It was the morning of their first of many weekly sessions. Dean was feeling more than a little aggravated at having to revisit the clinic, but Sam made him promise.

The way he posed it, Dean didn't really see a choice on his part. _Sam_ was the one being a stubborn ass. "It's not _mine_, Dean. I can't just take it and drive off never to be seen again. Someone's gonna need their soul again someday and until we get back my old one I gotta play by the rules."

"Whose rules? Flintstone's or Crowley's?"

"_Flintstein_ and yes: His. _He's_ legal and covered in all of this – if only marginally. If we run what's to stop him from putting out an APB on us? You heard him, the guy loves his souls, Dean. Not just gonna let one slip away."

"Still sucks ass and you know it," He reached for his gun. "And you can't tell me he doesn't give you the _heebies_."

Sam shivered a little, much to Dean's enjoyment. "No, but he's our. . ." He searched for the right word. "Subletter?"

"Is that even a word?" Dean pondered his brother as he stuffed a third knife down his pants.

"Careful or you're gonna cut off somethin' that's supposed to be there,"

Dean smiled at his little brother's snappy remark. God, he'd missed those. And not the ruthless, intelligent bribes of RoboSam, either. But real, heartfelt comebacks.

"Watch me. He _blinks_ too quick and I'm dropping him before he can cry uncle." He banged open the door with all the bravado of his glory days. Sam followed with a smirk like before, but even so there was something alien behind that smirk. Something still unchartered and probably better left alone. Dean _felt_ it.

"Dean? You ready?" Sam eyed his sibling from across the car.

The keys hovered in front of the ignition, but he had yet to ignite. "Huh- Yeah, I'm goin'. Keep your pants on."

The drive was shorter than Dean would've liked. The meeting took longer and the strange aftereffect on Sam was grating his nerves thin. "You alright?"

Sam was staring into blank space after leaving the doctor's office. "You think. . ."

"Do I think what?" Dean turned on his bed to study his brother without pretense.

"That . . . I'm . . . damaged somehow?"

He ground his jaw and squeezed an inch harder around the duvet. "No, I don't think you're damaged, Sam. You heard Flintstone. This is just until the soul binds with your remaining soul."

"Yeah, but what if I don't want it to?" Sam looked over, what seemed like an ocean of distance.

"Why wouldn't you want it to?"

"Because . . ." He sighed. "Because if it does, what happens to my original soul?"

"That's five percent, Sammy. You got a whole soul waiting for you," _in hell_.

"In hell."

_Damn_. Dean tried to act nonchalant, fully aware of the consequences of Sam's soul being stuck in hell for almost a year. Even when his body wasn't. The body wasn't the one that remembered hell – the soul was. "So what? I went through it and I know what to expect. Don't worry so much. We do the jobs Crowley throws our way till we find the damn alpha."

"What if we never do? What if I'm old and grey before I get _my_ soul back? What if the owner of _this_ soul suddenly decides he wants it back?" Sam shivered.

"Sam, relax." Dean tried to chastise gently, but came off sounding angry. "Nothing will happen to you. I got your back, remember?"

The darker brother nodded through a deep exhale, but refused to look up.

Dean remembered too clearly how RoboSam had betrayed him in almost every way possible, several times over, since their reunion. He knew in his head that the Sam before him wasn't cold or callous, but his heart still pounded furiously before every hunt. Once bitten, twice shy it seemed. He was waiting for the moment Sam switched back and let some beast or another get their grab at Dean. It was killing his sanity quicker than the sleep deprivation was. "I promise."

That caught Sam's attention and the younger brother looked up. "I'm starting to remember stuff."

_Is that guilt?_ "Like what?" He knew he had to kill it before it was allowed a chance to fester.

"Like . . . the Sam before. Before the soul,"

"_Your_ soul, Sam."

He shook his head. "It's not mine and it never will be."

Dean sighed and sat back. It looked to be a long afternoon. "It's yours till we get yours back," He slipped out of his jacket. "Quit worryin' about it and start thinking about how to catch that werewolf."

"What if it takes over?"

"It won't." He moved to the coffee machine. The brief silence that filled the room before his brother's next words should've warned him.

Sam picked at the linen. "It's already doing it."

Dean froze in his tracks and turned. "What?"

"I can feel it a little more each night."

"You mean you're changing?" This was worse. This would need fixing. Immediately.

"Not . . . exactly, but . . . yeah," He sighed and angled his body away from Dean. "It's like I can feel myself changing, but the only way to stop it is to refuse the soul."

"Refuse the soul? You can do that?"

He shrugged. "It's in _me_, I'm not in _it_," he said simply. It explained enough. "I can feel it pressing to merge with whatever's left of my own soul, but I just . . ."

"You just what?" He heard the worry clear as day in his own voice and knew they were screwed.

"I think it'll kill what's left of the old one. Or change it to fit."

"Yeah . . . well," Dean was at a loss for words. "That happens?"

"Why?" Sam peered up, honestly asking and praying for some type of answer from his brother.

"Well . . . Uh . . . From the way Flintstone told us I figure it's like a compromise. The soul can choose to blend with you, but if it does it needs to latch onto something."

"Like a parasite?" In an instant he went defensive.

"Yeah," Dean smirked at the horrible mental image. "Or like . . . pregnancy."

"That's not better,"

"It's a little better."

"Not really."

Dean smirked again and continued his way to the coffee machine. The next muttered words were so low he hardly caught them.

"I don't wanna lose myself."

He turned and saw his brother, head down, picking at the linen with renewed vigor. "I'm not gonna let that happen," He sighed, knowing he was about to admit something he'd strongly regret. "Look, the way I see it, you and I are the most codependent bastards on planet earth. We're so alike it freaks me out sometimes,"

Sam smirked.

"And that means. . ." He took a step towards his brother and leveled him with a strong stare. "-whatever's in you is in me," He shrugged. "And I'm still here. Always gonna be here as long as you need me."

Sam looked up with wide eyes. "I hope that's enough."

Another three weeks came and went. Three more sessions in Dr. Flintstein's office. Three excruciatingly long hours, where Dean couldn't stop fidgeting. Then, at the last session, the doctor declared that Sam was making remarkable progress and that they could dial back sessions to once a month for one more month. Dean glared at him at that and remarked that he meant 'one last session and then we're free?' Since then, barely two days had passed. They had a whole month to kill.

Winter was approaching, but still only visible early in the morning. Rime covered everything from three am to eight am. Everything shone in an ethereal glow in the fledgling stages of dawn and the ground sparkled. The earth was packed and frozen too which made digging harder. This was the time of year both brothers, for as long as they could remember, would pray every night for anything _but_ a ghost hunt.

Even John hated winter and had usually migrated to the southern states, simply ignoring the issue, claiming 'it was like digging through permafrost with his bare hands'. They had done three hunts since Sam's new soul. Two ghosts and one rogue vampire. The days blended together as both became complacent with their new situation. If Sam had known any better he wouldn't have believed his brother's calm exterior for one second. _If Sam's soul had been his own_, Dean mentally corrected. The small difference had grown the past weeks.

Sam still reacted like a normal person. Still moved as before. But now it seemed . . . different.

"Hey, you want some more coffee?"

Dean looked up from his spot on the wall. "Yeah sounds fine."

Sam sent him a glance from his spot by the stove. "You okay?"

"Hm?" Dean forcefully tore his eyes away from the wall. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Just, you look a little freaked." Sam sat down with two steaming mugs.

Dean sighed and rubbed his face. "Ahh, shit. Alright. You want the truth?"

"It's me, isn't it." Sam nodded, already expecting the answer.

Dean sighed again. "It's just . . . You _smell_ different, Sam," The younger brother looked up in surprise. "I didn't even notice it at first, but you do. And . . . you talk more in your sleep than you've ever done before. You even talk differently."

The younger brother nodded and picked at a splint in his cup.

"But it's either this or-"

"RoboSam."

Dean arched a brow in surprise. He hadn't thought his brother knew that particular nickname. Hoped, was perhaps the word.

"I'm not the only one who talks in my sleep," Both brothers sighed then. "You think I don't notice that I'm slipping, but I do. I just don't know what's better: Knowing that what little of my soul I had left is dying, or knowing what I'll become without one."

"Lose lose situation."

"Hm."

Pensive silence settled over the table. It was a new motel. Smelled funny. This one had a wall clock Dean already hated. "So what do you wanna do?"

He shrugged. "I can't go back, Dean," A shiver raced across his arms. Dean saw his hairs stand on edge. "I can't. Not knowing what I'll become. What it's like."

"You won't. You'll keep the soul and I'll just have to get used to it," He clapped his brother's hand awkwardly. "We're just a little outta sync that's all."

Sam smiled sheepishly back.

"Aw, well would you look at that?" A rough British accent commented snidely from the corner.

Two bodies shot out of their seats and turned to face the king of hell. "Such a lovely way to put it, Dean." He wasn't quite smirking, but that little grin that never left his face seemed more smug than usual.

"Go to hell,"

"Just came from there, actually. Heard the strangest thing, too," He stepped forward, outwardly calm.

_Damn bastard. He knows I don't have a gun on me_.

Crowley smirked. "How are you feeling, Sam?" He focused his attention on the younger brother who suddenly shrunk under the intense scrutiny.

"Stay away from him." Dean stepped into their line of sight with a wrathful glare.

"You little weasels," Crowley's smirk grew a little angry without losing its smugness.

"That's cute coming from you," Dean spat and poured on the fake bravado extra thick. Anything to veer the attention away from his brother.

"You think you could go out and get a soul without tellin' me?" His question sounded hoarse.

Dean could just barely feel his brother trembling behind him. "It's not really any of your business what we do when we're not hunting," He took two full steps forward. "So why don't you just. Back. Off." He leered down at the shorter man, who suddenly laughed in earnest.

"You know, this little scenic route seriously derails all my hard work. Sam loses his edge in the fight and you suddenly think you're all that." He smacked his lips at the two, tall men. "One might be tempted to do something about that cockiness of yours."

"Try me." Dean growled the best way he could. Had John Winchester seen, he would've been proud.

Crowley smirked again.

"You touch him and I swear I'll find a way to end you,"

"Why would I wanna touch him?" The Demon King held out his hands innocently and backed away from Dean's haughty stare. "When all I have to do is snap." He snapped his fingers and vanished.

Dean flinched and did a full 360 of the room. It wasn't until he met Sam's eyes again, his body went ice cold. "Sammy?"

Sam's shaking had tripled. His hands flinched every other second as he backed away. "N-No."

"Sam, what is it?" Dean rushed over and put his hands on his brother's shoulders.

"Wh-what did he d-do?" He fell to his knees. His shoulders shook. His hands fluttered in front of him like butterflies.

"Sam, tell me what's wrong!" Dean felt his own body trembling. His shoulders hunched and his head immediately hurt. "Sam?" 

"It's slipping," He looked up in terror. "Dean, it's slipping! He's ripping it out! Dean, it's slipping!" His hoarse scream filled the room. _Oh god, on no nononono!_

"The soul?" Dean's voice shrilled on the last word in ways it only did when Sam was involved.

"I can't go back, can't go back there!"

"Oh no you don't. C'mon!" Dean hauled him off his feet and pulled him forcefully from the room. If there was even the slimmest chance in hell he could fix this, he would. He hurried his brother to the car and pulled out, heading towards New York. Towards Flintstein.

15


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Dean jumped through the screen door and made the perky redhead jump. "Where's Flintstein?"

She yelped, but meekly pointed towards his offices.

Dean ran through the doors and startled a young couple speaking to the Doctor. "Doc you gotta come!"

"Wuh…uhh…" The man fumbled for a proper response.

The young couple had gone politely quiet and was watching the scene unfold with curious expressions. "I gotta talk to ya, NOW!" Dean finished and gestured back towards the lobby.

Flintstein removed himself from the couple with an offhanded excuse. "What's this about?"

Dean was walking at a rapid pace towards the car, which was still humming by the front entrance. "My brother!" 

"What?" Flintstein's disbelieving bark was interrupted the second he saw Sam on the front seat.

The young man was sitting, pale-faced and stoic. Staring straight at nothing. "It happened while we were driving over."

"What happened?" Flintstein kneeled next to Sam as Dean opened the door. The dark hunter slowly turned his head to look at the doctor, but with no emotional signs of recognition.

"Hi doc." His voice was flat.

Flintstein looked in shock back at Dean before turning back to Sam. "Someone took his soul." Dean offered with anger pouring from every word.

"That's impossible," The doctor muttered.

"And yet it happened," Dean reached in and pulled his brother out. Sam obliged him without a flinch. "And you're gonna fix it."

Dr. Flintstein watched in bafflement as Dean maneuvered his near catatonic brother back through the entrance. "How? I-" Flintstein hovered anxiously around the two as all three of them passed by the curious secretary.

"Doctor?"

"It's fine, Claudia. Please explain to the Rushmore's that I'm sorry, but something has come up. They're in my office." He gently guided Dean and Sam through the back entrance to the soul chamber. "Please put him here." He asked Dean and gestured to a chair.

Dean maneuvered his brother down, eyes scouring every inch of his face over and over, searching for something he'd recognize.

"What happened?"

"Doesn't matter. All you need to know is that Sam's soul is gone," _again_, he silently added.

"It wasn't _his_ soul, Mr.- Dean." Flintstein agitatedly turned on the large machine.

"Well it was in him when it got yanked out!"

"Dean," Sam quietly inquired.

"Hey, buddy. How you feelin'?" He leaned down to eyelevel.

"Same. Like before." He sighed. "A little bored."

Dean's breath left him in a horrible rush.

"What you're saying is impossible. It's not humanly possible to rip a soul from the body unless they have one of these," He gestured to the machine.

"Well for argument's sake, let's say he _does_."

"He can't, it's patented-"

"DOCTOR!" The doctor flinched. "It happened! Fix it."

"I-"

Suddenly Sam collapsed into convulsions. His back arched over the backrest and his arms flailed to the sides. Only Dean's steady grip on his shoulders kept him from falling to the floor.

"Oh god," Flintstein whispered in shocked awe.

"Help him!"

The doctor moved over and shone a penlight into Sam's eyes. One after the other. Dean silently fumed. "His body is reacting to the shock. There's nothing I can do-"

"What?"

"Yet . . ." Flintstein finished uncertainly. "I can't implant a new soul until his core-temperature rises."

"Why not?"

"It could cause a heart attack. I could give him some Phenytoin Sodium, but. . . uhh. . ." He ran a hand through his sweaty, white hair. Or what was left of it.

"What? What's that? Give it to him," Dean muttered from his brother's side.

Flintstein flinched. "Right." He yanked open a drawer and filled a small syringe. Tapping the needle, he moved and injected a few milligrams directly into Sam's veins. Slowly Sam's struggles stilled. His head lolled back and his mouth dropped open.

Dean reached up and cradled the back of his head. His eyes were searching his face for any signs of pain. When he found none, he sighed.

"How can someone just rip out-" Flintstein stopped himself. "That was someone's _soul_." He said emphatically.

Dean sighed and spotted a cot against a wall. "You mind?" He pointed to it.

"No. Of course." Flintstein watched the strong, young man shuffle his brother to the cot and deposit him gently on the white sheet. "What happened to him?"

"No offense, but I already told you all I'm gonna say."

"No-" He waved a hand distractedly without taking his eyes from Sam. "Before. Before you came here. Why didn't he have a soul to begin with?"

Dean stared at the doctor, considering what explanation to give. He finally settled for his version of the truth. "Someone took it."

"This _Crowley_ you mentioned last time?"

Dean's eyes zeroed in. He was surprised the doctor remembered the name and mentally berated himself for letting it slip. He nodded, unwilling to give any more explanation.

"How?" Flintstein looked aghast, uncomprehending and beyond confused. His hand ruffled the white fluff on his head, making it prickle out like wisps of white kitten-fur. "Does he have his own machine, or-"

"I really don't know." Another truth Dean was disgruntled about. He really had no idea how it worked. Could Crowley even take a soul that hadn't officially been sold to him? Surely he couldn't just walk around, yanking people's souls out whenever he felt like it?

Flintstein sighed and took a seat in Sam's abandoned chair. His back sagged and his arms fell over the armrests. "I just don't know anymore."

_Great_, Dean thought, _now he decides to grow a conscience_. "Well we just fix my brother and call it even, whatta ya say?"

"Hm?" The doctor was staring into blank space. "Yes, sure- wait. What?"

"Well the way I see it, you promised us a soul," Dean spread his arms. "I don't see one."

Flintstein stuttered. "Do you have _any_ idea what my deal with you two has already cost me?" He seemed mortified, but Dean couldn't really care less.

"Look, _doctor_," he sneered. "My brother's ass is on the line because of you-"

"No. No, this is not my fault. I have nothing to do with any third party." Flintstein argued passionately. "You owe me a soul and I would think an honorable man such as yourself would uphold that promise," He was nearing a full-fledged panic.

"I'm not your goddamn personal charity organization." Dean hissed. On the cot his brother stirred. "My brother needs a soul and you've got a whole fuckin' storage full of 'em." He pointed to the vault where he knew the souls were stored.

"I can't just hand you over another one-"

Dean took two long steps forward till he was staring down at the befuddled doctor. "My brother is in this mess because of you and by god, you're gonna help him, or I swear. . ." He let the threat hang in the air.

What little personal pride or courage Flintstein possessed puffed out of him in a deep exhale. "I- I can't-"

"You can and you will!" Dean demanded without backing down.

"Dean?" Sam muttered from the cot. He sat up, oddly conscious and observant. "What're you doing?"

"Sam, butt out!"

"I will not just hand over another innocent soul for you to _lose_." Flintstein argued.

Dean had to give him a little credit. For his lanky size he didn't intimidate as easily as one might've thought.

"Dean," Sam's voice was back to its former sardonic glory and Dean could've screamed then and there. "We tried it your way. That didn't work. I feel fine. Let's just go, huh?" It wasn't much of a question really. If Sam left Dean knew he'd have no choice but to follow. As if to prove Dean's point he rolled off the cot and shrugged his shoulders. "God that feels good," He leaned his head back and exhaled deeply.

Dean could feel his hope dropping. This had been their last real resort. There was only one other option and Dean didn't think either brother would survive if they chose to pursue _that_. "Sam. . ." His argument was sapped before he even knew what to say. "I'm not leaving without a soul." It was stubborn, but it was all he had left. When hope fled, when logic failed, he'd still have his stubborn-streak. It was a safe harbor in the shit-storm that was their lives.

Sam sighed, sounding distinctly bored. "Dean, I feel fine-" 

"You're NOT fine, Sam!" He whirled on him. "You like a freakin' zombie and the scary part is that you don't even see it."

"I'm calling the police," Flintstein suddenly decided. He was out the door before Dean could fully register what had happened.

"Fuck!"

"Well that's just great. Just what we need. More bad publicity."

"That's not funny, Sam." Dean's voice was cut in stone and anyone with a soul would've known to back off and cut their losses.

"It is a little," Sam instead argued with a slight smirk.

Dean sighed. His mind was whirling with possible options. Hell, he was half considering the idea of taking Flintstein hostage and _forcing_ him to give Sam a new soul. It was better than the alternative. "We just gotta get him back here before he makes that damn call-"

"Dean, it's over. Let's just get outta here." Sam gestured to the door casually. The thought of prison didn't even scare him anymore, Dean realized. "C'mon," Sam coaxed and smirked again.

This was all a damn joke to him. Nothing registered.

His tall brother decided he didn't like waiting around and left the office, leaving Dean behind. He didn't really care if his brother followed or not, but knew he would. Dean always followed. The car was where they left her and Sam slipped in without a backwards glance. He counted down from thirty and smirked when Dean exited the building in a slight rush. He was glancing around, scouting for police cruisers, Sam knew.

He smirked when his brother slid in behind the wheel. "Nice of you to drop by,"

Dean swallowed convulsively. He sported a look of utter desperation and somewhere, deep within himself, Sam recognized it as an expression of extreme sorrow. He just couldn't find it in him to care. The car peeled away from the curb and joined the melee of the Big Apple just as sirens squealed in from the distance.

Neither man ever spoke of Dr. Flintstein again.

8


End file.
